Thursday, May 22, 2003

REDO

I have GOT to get a new schedule. This 6:00 am to 2:00 pm thing isn't working out. It's morphed into a 7:00-ish to 12:00-ish, then maybe a little extra at night if I can stand it kind of deal. Usually I can't. Usually I fuss and worry over the fact that I'm not meeting my quota (that I set for myself). I wonder if I could handle a four-hour overnight...hm...nah. I'd probably find some amazing cartoon that was on at 2:00 am and I'd have to watch it. I'm a sucker for cartoons.

My last split shift transcribing at home was a 5:00 am to 9:00 am, then 8:00 pm to midnight. That was when Mo wasn't in school or day care and I was the single-est single parent in the whole world. I wonder...could I do that again? How did I do it back then? I think I drank lots and lots of coffee, and smoked like a stack with the windows open, and pretended I was some sort of journalist working on some increda-hot stories.

I think I could do that again. Let me shut this chemical depression off for a bit and crank up the mania. Then I'll be ready.

WHINE WHINE WHINE
My job requires more discipline and self-motivation than you might think. Some days it requires more than I have. Some days I'd rather be slopping hogs and digging ditches than typing medical reports. I remember saying that back in December, but this time it's not the company. It's me. Damn and blast.

WARNING!! WARNING!! TOO MUCH INFORMATION!!
Josh is the best kisser in the multiverse. I just had to say it. This is the most tenacious chemistry I've ever experienced. Does the first-time spark usually last this long? It's working on 11 months, nearly a year now, and it's still, in the immortal words of The Continental, "Wow-ee-wow-wow-wow!!!"

THEFT FOR PURPOSES OF EGO-BOOSTING
This link has nothing to do at all with MY Josh, but I like it anyway. Sniff sniff sniff...heeheehee

Josh is a miracle of modern neuropsychiatric medicine. All of the benefits and none of the side effects.

He is as much a hero as Superman and the entire JLA put together. And I love him more than any man ever.

HEY ALL YOU PEOPLE
You should tell him how great he is, even if you don't know him personally. Take my word for it. If you DO know him, it's likely you're at a distance and he hasn't seen you for a while. He misses you. Tell him again how great he is, because sometimes I think he forgets, in his eminent humbleness. Like this:

You kick ass.
You're a rock star and a god incarnate.
You're a wonderful dad.
You are perfect in your you-ness.
You're cute when you make that face.

Monday, May 19, 2003

OH, AND I CHANGED MY MIND

Now I hate my job. I can't make my fingers type as quickly as they used to do, and I make a lot more mistakes. I don't have the patience or the concentration I used to have, either. I find myself paying more attention to the content of the reports, and damn if they don't piss me off. For example...

This 30-year-old woman comes in for her annual GYN and physical. She has a history of anorexia from ages 16 to 23. That's seven years, folks. She has concerns about what she thinks is excessive weight gain and anxiety about that now. She's 5'3" and weighs 144 pounds (for comparison, for those of you who have seen me in person, I'm 5'4" and about 140-ish). The dictating doctor makes a note that 1) She's gained 3 pounds in the last six months; 2) She was able to "diet herself down to 119 pounds for her wedding a year ago;" and 3) "The anorexia has not acted up since she caught herself a husband." Yes. She really said that. Hm...something's not right...

She (the doctor) goes on to make a further note of the fact that this weight of 144 is on the upper limits of normal weight for her height, and she should "watch it." The doc offered to change her birth control pills to something that might "help change her appetite." Uh...(this is me fuming).

Is this what a recovered/recovering anorectic needs to hear from a medical professional? That she needs to watch her weight, but that now that she "caught herself a man," that everything will be okay? That a 3-pound weight gain is something of which she should be really wary? For fuck's sake. What a fucking stupid doctor. Excuse my language, but there's more.

If this patient relapses in her anorexia, I blame the doctor, the fucking evil bitch. I hope that doctor spends the rest of her life in an agony of hunger and always seeing a FAT UGLY COW in the mirror no matter how skinny she gets, and I hope she does it all for some idiot man.

Damn and blast you Dr. So-and-So!!! I curse you with a subclinical eating disorder and all the attendant problems therewith!!! I curse you with a body that will eat itself and betray you by always appearing larger than it is. May your brain shrivel and wither. May your heart seize up and refuse to beat for lack of muscle mass. May the bottoms of your feet be bare bone with skin, so that walking is pain squared and cubed. AND...when you seek medical attention, may YOUR doctor tell you to "watch it."

PREFACE
Anyone who emails me or comments about how they hope I can get some professional help is welcome to foot the bill. My insurance company says I have "pre-existing conditions" and will not cover any treatment for either of my official diagnoses, which are bipolar disorder type I and bulimia nervosa.

First of all, let me say this: I am not a coward. I have faced things that would make other people wet their pants without batting an eye. I have faced death TWICE now, and came off relatively unscathed except for some bad memories and occasional nightmares. My body, mind and what I presumptuously call my soul/spirit dyad have been used and abused, bought and sold, worn and torn for a long time now. You would think that descending into the underworld of depression would be old hat to me by now, and feel like a temporary bobble on a long and bumpy road.

Not so.

Most of the time, realizing my mood is on a downswing is a cue to alter my perceptions and behaviors temporarily. Work a little less, try to sleep a little more, get some piece of quiet, hand the kid off to Grandma, have some of that oft-touted quality time with Josh, smoke 'em if I got 'em, get some fucking chocolate in my system, etc.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it really doesn't. Sometimes sitting in a hot bubble bath only kicks up the turmoil and accentuates the pathos. Sometimes the indulgence in chocolate, wine or stronger libation, tobacco, or any of life's other potentially dangerous pleasures threatens to lead right back down the old bumpy roads of relapse and addiction.

I am particularly skittish of the indulgence in food. One of those encounters with death of which I spoke was a direct result of dysfunctional indulgence and subsequent dysfunctional compensation. It would be waaaaaay too easy for me to become an alcoholic as well, but like others, my tolerance is low and I get wasted on less and less each time. Someone else said the only thing that saved the drinkers in their family was a low tolerance. Something to ponder. Same here.

Common sense often takes a backseat on these days. Never mind that the world is full of people who think I'm a rock star, goddess incarnate, best and coolest mom ever, etc. Man, if they knew what a horrible little shit I was, they'd change their minds in a hurry. Eating yourself sick is not rock-star behavior. Goddesses don't engage is self-loathing. The best-and-coolest mom would pay closer attention. They never lose sight of the ascent out of the underworld.

You know, if Orpheus had to go into the underworld every fucking month to rescue his Eurydice, he'd probably leave her there after a while.

I have lost track of how many doctors I have seen for treatment of my eating disorder and mood disorder. I have lost track of how many times I have told my story to concerned faces and pens scratching notes. I've also lost track of how many times I've been on the brink of relapse or severe depression when something pulls me out: Morgan has occasionally done the trick, Josh has, some other friends have too (you know who you are, Dr. Rev. So-and-So and etc.).

So I'm wondering as I sit typing, fresh out of the exacerbatingly hot bubble bath, with no clue as to what Morgan's doing or even if she's still in the apartment, with good news of many kinds and great people on all sides, feeling rather disgustingly bloated and hideous, feeling far too old less than a month before my first 29th birthday, head hurting, hormones resetting...wondering against all common sense, what oh what will save me this time?

The retreat up north seemed to do more harm than good, I'm afraid to say. (It seems I can't escape no matter where I go.) Upon seeing a baby bear near the Oconto River, I got out of there as fast as my life-loving legs would carry me for fear of the wrath of Mom. I saw a friggin' HUGE bald eagle perched on a skeletal pine right on the edge of highway 32 in Forest County. I saw a porcupine in a tree while climbing Quartz Hill. I saw one of the biggest blue heron rookeries in the region, plus a large area of virgin old growth pine and hardwood in the Nicolet National Forest. I climbed the Mountain Lookout fire tower and saw north over the border into Michigan. I saw an otter, a loon, some deer and a trillion trilliums. The north woods is a beautiful place in spring, indeed.

I also saw ostriches in cruelly small pens, a small herd of bison that apparently didn't know it was supposed to be hunted out of this state, and an Amish man plowing his fields with four draft horses and a truly old-school McCormick plow. Anachronisms that seemed to not make sense.

All of this stopped when it hit my eyes. That's a bad sign.

Long story short: I slip backwards, and though Josh holds one hand and Mo holds the other, my wrists have suddenly become detachable. Who can guess what's at the bottom this time?

PEP TALK
I'm not a coward. I'm NOT a coward. I'M NOT A COWARD! I say to myself, when fear threatens to incapacitate me altogether, or drive me to desparate outrage. Sure, why not steal that big bottle of Xanax out of the cupboard? How can I make it look like an accident? Why not just fall asleep in the tub with the water running? You've done it before...sure, there's something very Dorothy Parker-esque about me, and something very Sylvia Plath-ish, and Anne Sexton-like, and not more than a smidge of Billie Holiday and all those other women who burnt out and faded away before they were done, or tried to.

When you fear life more than you fear death, that's a turning point. (wobble, wobble, the bubble in my level is finding its place...)

I profess to fear nothing, but you know what? It's more honest to say that I'm afraid of a hell of a lot, and with good reason. Yet I persevere. Courage is being afraid and forging ahead anyway. Bully through clinging despair and hope the path under my feet starts an upward grade. Hope can make it so, n'est-pas?

What's at the bottom is facing the desire for oblivion again, and spitting in its eye. Fuck you, suicidal ideation. It's a cliche. I've been there and done that. I don't fear death, and though I fear a lot of life, I AM NOT A COWARD!

DAY NEW MON

What you just read was real. My mood swings are severe enough to warrant professional attention and copious amounts of medication and therapy, or so I've been told.

This happens every month. Descent, muddle through, pep talk, ascent. Normal - depressed - suicidal - nearly normal. Premenstrual, perhaps? Then write it off as a girl thing and pretend like it's all in my head. Blame it on the moon. Blame it on the rain. Blame it on Milli Vanilli.

My insurance company will not pay a single dime towards treatment. Prozac or fluoxetine? Nope. Psychotherapy? Nope. Inpatient or day treatment? Nope. This from the same insurance company who pays full coverage for Viagra so old men with limp dicks can get it on with their saggy old wives or their trophy girlfriends so as not to bruise their fragile egos...but will not pay for oral contraceptives UNLESS they're for dermatologic/cosmetic improvement in women's acne, and expressly not as birth control. Argh.

So I pass through days and days of intermittently wanting to kill myself (again?) and doing a damn fine job of hiding it, while BC/BS refuses to pay for me to help myself, get back on the meds, see someone impartial, balance my unbalanced chemicals, treat my illness...while Grandpa's out gettin' some, knocking up 25-year-old floozie who can't go on the pill because she can't afford it out of pocket.

Man, do I have a twisted world view. And I digress.

By the way, this is almost exactly what I would do in therapy...choose my words carefully, express exactly what I mean, digress a little bit, and emerge a bit wiser. If I could only have some SSRIs...these days would again be reduced to blips on my emotional radar screen, and not screaming red alarms.